Diefenbunker debunked

We travelled down a blast tunnel, passed through a set of thick, lead doors and entered a radiation decontamination unit to get here. Not your average vacation spot you'd think, but we're part of the 25,000 or so visitors who this year will search out some of our nuclear nostalgia.

We're underground in a place they call the Diefenbunker. Almost a half-century ago this was the spot to hunker down if twitching fingers had dared push the Doomsday button. In the tumultuous 1960s, this was Canada's answer to surviving oblivion in a crazy nuclear weapons race that brought the world's superpowers to the brink of extinction.

Originally called The Central Emergency Government Headquarters, the underground fortress lies just outside Ottawa in the small Ontario town of Carp. The complex quickly lost its formal name and became the "Diefenbunker," an irreverent moniker given because it was constructed during the Diefenbaker administration in the late 1950s and early '60s.

A half-hour drive west of downtown Ottawa, this underground lair was the ultimate in nuclear survival. Once the most secret facility in the country, its solid lead doors are now fully open to visitors wanting to discover a fascinating piece of Canada's Cold War legacy.

It's worth the trip. From the moment you step inside, you enter a partially forgotten nether world of the early 1960s, where fallout, radiation, mushroom clouds and megatons were words edged with terror in the minds of the general public.

From its steel-lined blast tunnel to its crowded mechanical room, where powerful generators, air filtration systems and electrical units are now still and quiet, the facility was a self-contained fortress community. In the central command room, surrounded by mural-sized wall maps, dated computers, telephones and Telex machines sit silent and operator-less.

Next door in the situation room, where wartime leaders would have gathered to discuss what to do next after the unthinkable had happened, ominous clocks showing the different time zones across the continent stare down at empty chairs. Dated perhaps, but you need little imagination to travel back to what was a very real Cold War.

Is it the constant 17-Celsius temperature, or the half expectation of a cameo appearance by Dr. Strangelove and his electric wheelchair that brings on my goose bumps?

About 20 metres above our heads, the tranquil, picture-perfect landscape right off the cover of Country Life magazine seems a long way away from the bright lights of the operations room we were touring.

But if the unthinkable had happened, most of us would never have made the guest list here.

With room for a maximum of 600, its cramped bunks were reserved only for Canada's top movers and shakers among the government and military elite. Even if you did make the invite list, you could forget about bringing an extra suitcase, not to mention the spouse and kids. There was no space.

Unlike all the secretiveness during its heyday, the site now welcomes about 25,000 visitors a year with open arms. For the $14 entrance fee, you can see how the other half would have survived had Armageddon descended. Daily tours take place through the year, with the exception of the Christmas holiday period, but you have to phone ahead to make a reservation.

Construction on the site began in 1961, a time when international sabre-rattling had gone nuclear.

The Diefenbaker government of the time followed through with a program to build communication bunkers across the country that would house top politicians, military leaders and civil service mandarins -- the necessary team required for rebuilding the country after the nuclear winter had thawed.

The Diefenbunker was a contractor's dream job, with 32,000 cubic yards of concrete and 5,000 tonnes of reinforcing steel used in a 100,000-square-foot, four-storey complex. Fortunately, the builder's handiwork was never put to the ultimate test.

The building in the fenced-off parking lot at the edge of town looks innocent enough. It's when you step inside that you see beyond the camouflage. The unimpressive building provides the discreet entrance to the 115-metre-long blast tunnel, a novel construction plan configured to protect the main bunker complex.

The place was so secret, during the two-year construction period, local farmers continued to plant corn and milk their cows unaware their cattle were grazing atop Canada's biggest defence secret of the 1960s.

Ironically, an energetic Toronto reporter got wind of the construction and soon aerial photographs filled the front pages of the country's newspapers.

The complex was pretty much an underground mini-city with its own doctor, dentist, a capacious dining hall and a CBC radio studio.

The Bank of Canada built a massive vault in the bunker to hold the nation's gold reserves, but the safe was never utilized for its original purpose. The bunker was decommissioned in the mid-1990s and opened to the public in 1998.

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